


we'll never be royals

by boss



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boss/pseuds/boss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NYC dog walker AU. Chanyeol understands dogs, but does he understand people? No, not really, but he deserves a gold star for trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll never be royals

**Author's Note:**

> For superman ♥ Thank you for my baby I for looking this over for me!

Chanyeol is clumsy. There are moments when it doesn’t matter -- like when he accidentally drops his professor’s pen onto the floor of his office and then bumps the back of his head on said professor’s desk when he’s picking it back up -- and there are moments when Chanyeol’s clumsiness almost gets Mrs. Jackson’s orange Pomeranian run over by a yellow taxi cab.  
  
Luckily, Chanyeol runs, slips, manages to regain his footing, bumps into one or ten businessmen who swear under their breath about “youths,” “hipsters,” and even “ _New Yorkers_ ”, which is a little rich coming from the guy who smells like he bleeds hedge fund bills, and while under assault from every general direction, still, Captain Pickles, the orange Pomeranian, is saved by the very man who had accidentally let go of his leash.  
  
The yellow taxicab, then, almost runs _Chanyeol_ over but he’s big, there are a lot of witnesses, and he doesn’t care how much of an obstruction he’s being, the dog has been saved! “Don’t scare me like that again.” Chanyeol kisses Pickles between his tiny, orange head, sighing with relief when his high tops touch the raised sidewalk.  
  
Mr. Pickles pants and ignores him.  
  
  
  
  
Mr. Pickles is owned by Mrs. Jackson, an elderly Nigerian woman who lives in Midtown, but had been named by Mrs. Jackson’s granddaughter whose favorite food is lettuce.  
  
Kidding. Her favorite food is pickles.  
  
Every time Chanyeol drops Mr. Pickles off, well walked and panting so hard his tiny body is almost shaking, Chanyeol is treated to another short anecdote about Joseline, Mrs. Jackson’s granddaughter. “She loves this little puppy. She calls me all the time. ‘Mama, where’s the puppy? Is the puppy there? Put him on the phone, mama.’ I say, ‘Baby, he’s a dog. He can’t come to the phone.’ And she says, ‘He’s smart, mama. I promise. Put him on the phone.’ And then I look like a damn fool holding up the phone to the dog’s ear.” She shakes her head. “I tell you, young man, children these days are too bright for their own folks.”  
  
Chanyeol is scared of anyone under five feet so he doesn’t interact much with children, but he nods and smiles and answers the appropriate questions when they’re brought up. He doesn’t tell Mrs. Jackson about Mr. Pickle’s Madison Avenue mishap; she doesn’t need to know now that he’s safe and sound and just as princely as ever.  
  
  
  
  
No one says, “Hey, I’m going to move to New York City and become a _dog walker_.” Like most of his friends, Chanyeol is only in the city for school. In his freshman year of university, he had volunteered at an animal hospital in Midtown and he had been in charge of walking the dogs the animal hospital housed when their owners were away on vacation. Soon, people in the neighborhood had started asking Chanyeol to walk their dogs, thinking he was an actual dog walker, and Chanyeol, who loved dogs and liked people, had agreed before he could properly start up his business.  
  
CP’s Walk the Dog (the business card has a picture of the yo-yo trick in the foreground; Chanyeol had felt especially clever with this design) dog walking service had started one rainy Spring morning along Lexington Avenue with only a mixed Labradoodle and a puppy Alaskan Malamute as his first charges.  
  
That’s when Chanyeol had quickly learned: people will have dogs anywhere, whether they live in a sprawling brownstone or in a studio apartment. They will always have dog and there will always be a need for people who can take care of dogs.  
  
At the start of Walk the Dog, he hadn’t liked spending so much time in the homes of his clients, but they’ve softened him. He loves coming over to pick up their pooches, lingering a little in the doorway, listening to whatever it is they want to tell him.  
  
Sometimes, it’s about their dogs. Sparky hasn’t been feeling well. Fifi is pregnant so walk her slowly. Rocky just had surgery on his paw, please make sure he doesn’t overexert himself.  
  
Sometimes, it’s about themselves, their lives. People just want to talk someone. They want to be heard. Especially the elderly, the grandmothers and grandfathers who only have their dogs, when they see Chanyeol standing in their doorways, they see someone else. A son, a nephew. A familiar person they can share their feelings with without fear of abandonment, like many of them have suffered, or unwarranted neglect.  
  
Dog walking is a business and he does make money from his customers, but he doesn’t mind it when his customers invite him into their home. “Are you thirsty? Here have a bottle of water. No, take it. It’s three million degrees out there in the heat wave. Did I ever tell you about my goddaughter Margaret who almost died in San Juan when she fainted in the heat? Listen to me, son. This heat is no joke. Take this water bottle!” They nag and they good-naturedly turn their noses up at his clothes, asking him why his pants are so tight, why his hair is so long, _aren’t you hot? why don’t you cut it? what did you have for lunch? that’s it? kids these days._  
  
It feels good, especially when Chanyeol’s family is way back in Springfield, Missouri, and he won’t see them until Christmas.  
  
Whenever he finds himself wishing for snow in July, he starts on his dog walking schedule a little early, picking up Poof at the Rodriguez’s, Charlie at the Woo’s, and Princess at the Smith’s. A Yorkshire terrier, a Labrador/Poodle hybrid, and an unconfirmed ex-shelter dog that’s as big as a Dalmatian but as furry as a Finnish Lapphund. “I think she’s an alien,” confesses Laura Smith. Her British accent is very charming, Chanyeol almost forgets to pay attention to her words because he’s too caught by how she says them. “But I love her. She’s a fun dog. The life of the party, really. Everyone loves her in this building.”  
  
Poof is a ham and will be led anywhere. Charlie is lazy and never wants to walk more than a few blocks or he starts trying to sit on Poof, and Princess wants to walk Chanyeol. Chanyeol fumbles with their leashes a few times and has a minor sweatdrop moment when a stranger’s Bull terrier starts sniffing around Poof’s privates.  
  
“He’s friendly,” says the owner, smiling and adjusting his glasses.  
  
The Bull terrier looks like it can eat Poof for breakfast, lunch, and would still find pieces of her in its teeth for dinner. “Haha, I’m sure,” says Chanyeol. He feels like a minnow talking to a Great White.  
  
Princess notices Chanyeol is taking much too long and tugs on her leash. Her deep growl startles Charlie out of his daze. He had been carefully watching the hot dog vendor across the street. The smell of cooking sausages is thick, along with that quintessential cigarette smoke smell that’s everywhere in Midtown. Though the sky is gray, it hasn’t rained and Chanyeol thinks they can make it to 23rd Street without being caught in a surprise rainstorm.  
  
The Madison Square Park dog run is one of Chanyeol’s favorite places in the city, mostly because he can have himself a little rest while the pooches get acquainted with each other and some of the familiar locals. He’s been coming here for so long, the neighborhood dogs here are familiar to him. Sam, the Airedale terrier puppy. Arrow, the Siberian Husky who loves bacon treats and pets from beautiful women.  
  
Chanyeol unhooks Poof, Charlie, and Princess from their leashes and then says, “Run free, heed the call of the wild!”  
  
Arrow’s owner, a burly looking bartender with sleeve tattoos and an Adventure Time tee, rolls his eyes. “Never change, Chanyeol.”  
  
“I won’t, Marcus,” Chanyeol replies, smiling. He’s not offended. While the three dogs still linger by his legs, Chanyeol takes his glasses off, rubs them on his flannel to clean them of air gunk, and then slips them back on. When he blinks and can see in 720p again, his breath catches. His heart stops. He thinks he hears someone playing the world’s tiniest violin and then there’s a piano, it’s fucking Pachelbel’s canon, the song everyone who has ever looked at a piano for more than five minutes has had to learn. The world around him slows to a stop.  
  
A warm breeze blows, playing with his hair, and through the itchy, brown cloud now covering his nose and mouth, Chanyeol sees the most beautiful man-boy he’s ever seen. And he’s walking a Shiba Inu. _Into_ the dog park.  
  
Chanyeol quickly shakes his hair out of his face and runs his hand along the seat of his pants. Fucking hell, he’s looking for Cupid’s arrow and finds Marcus’ Arrow, judging him in the way all Siberian Huskies are wont to do.  
  
The man-boy (because he looks like he could easily be Chanyeol’s age but so had Chanyeol’s last crush and he’s never allowed to talk about that, not even with himself) is tall and broad shouldered with toned arms, legs.  
  
There’s a light sheen of sweat on his muscular thighs, on his chest, and Chanyeol thinks he can almost spot the guy’s nipples through his sweaty white tank. Dark, dark hair, an array of piercings decorated both of his ears, and there may be a line of ink peeking through the top of his shorts when he stretches but Chanyeol is too busy remembering to breathe and averting his eyes to properly pay attention.  
  
First rule of New York City - do not make eye contact in public. New Yorkers are like wild dogs: they will see eye contact as a threat. A threat means an attack and Chanyeol is not in any position to defend himself from an attack, dog or otherwise.  
  
Because it’s slightly more socially acceptable to smile at stranger’s dogs, Chanyeol turns his attention to the new Shiba Inu. Chanyeol likes animals, this is okay. He owns a dog walking business, for crying out loud. He would walk that Shiba Inu if he could. He would walk it and then go back to that guy’s house and they can sit around and talk about how bored and uninspiring everything else.  
  
This guy looks a little artsy, he must love existentialism. Descartes. Right, Descartes. Kant, too? Chanyeol doesn’t remember his Philosophy class that well. It had been at seven in the evening, right after basketball practice, and he had always been too sweaty and exhausted to try to analyze whatever the fuck PDF his professor wanted him to read. Also, there was a guy who turned into a roach. That’s probably not enough to start a conversation with Artsy Guy.  
  
Oh God, Chanyeol’s already given him a nickname. He’s back in eleventh grade and trying to get the attention of an upperclassman who looked like Jessica Alba. It won’t be exactly like eleventh grade, because he’s not sure there’s a cornfield nearby for him to get trashed in and have a shouting contest with a herd of grumpy cows, but the embarrassment might feel the same.  
  
 _The dog._ Yes, right, the dog. Don’t look at the guy. The dog is the one you can look it. It’s a pretty Shiba Inu, black with brown, and it’s currently sniffing around Poof. _What the heck is this thing,_ Chanyeol imagines it saying. _This is not a dog. This is a squirrel._  
  
Chanyeol smiles.  
  
“Is that your dog?” asks a voice.  
  
Artsy Guy has taken his white ear buds out and has wrapped them around his neck. No music plays. He’s closer than Chanyeol had remembered him being, his arms crossed as he stands near the dog run enclosure. He wipes his forehead, flashing Chanyeol his thickly haired armpits and his toned arms, and he smells amazing despite looking as though he’s been running for some time. It’s attractive.  
  
“Uh, no, she’s not. I’m a dog walker.” _Chanyeol Park. Twenty-two. Sagittarius. NYU. Veterinary science. Florence and the Machine. The XX. Juicy J. Macklemore._ “These two are also mine.” He points to Charlie, who is dozing and doesn’t care how many other dogs there are in the dog run, and Princess, who is playing a rousing game of tag with Sam. Sam’s owner watches over them both with her smile on her face and calls out to Sam in excited Japanese, holding a camera over the edges of the enclosure to take a picture on her smartphone. “Also, I’m--”  
  
Artsy Guy has turned away from him. His profile is really pretty, lips gorgeous and full, and his disinterest stings. Chanyeol’s mouth fills with a sour taste. It’s alright. It’s probably not personal. The guy is tired, he needs a rest after exerting himself doing whatever it is people _do_ in shorts like that. Chanyeol doesn’t know what it is but he would pay good money to see it happening.  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t get Artsy Guy’s name or any hint toward his identity. Whatever it on his lower stomach is definitely a tattoo, his Shiba Inu is Nala and she’s one of the most obedient dogs Chanyeol has ever seen. She’s also a little showy and prances delicately over to Artsy Guy with the gait of a Eukanuba Best in Show. Well-bred. Expensive, but also well cared for. Artsy Guy doesn’t say goodbye, and why would he when he doesn’t know Chanyeol, but Chanyeol watches him go a little sadly. He even imagines how this would look if his life were a made-for-TV movie -- maybe a long shot of him watching Artsy Guy go with melancholic “why won’t you look at me” music playing softly on the world’s smallest concert ensemble.  
  
He pouts at Poof, “I bet you never have these problems, huh?”  
  
Poof doesn’t understand his ape yapping and turns to growl at Arrow, who has creeped up behind her again. All dogs her size think they have the might of Hercules despite only having the weight of a well-fed rabbit. It’s endearing but it’s gotten Chanyeol in sticky situations with fearless lap dogs and angry raccoons, but, so far, all the parties have escaped unharmed. But it looks like Arrow might lose one of his bright blue eyes if he keeps sniffing around Poof and rightfully turns his attention away, now to Chanyeol, who smiles and tries to make himself look unappetizing.  
  
“I taste like asparagus, I swear.”  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol wakes up every day in love with New York City. It’s a love that’s hard to bear, the kind that keeps him up at night, sipping stale Ginger Ale and watching Colbert while leafing through his Economics textbooks or updating his Tumblr with new pictures of dogs all around the city. His love keeps him awake on certain nights, waiting for the phantom noise of the elevated line as it rattles along its rails.  
  
Last summer, he spent a few months in Williamsburg and he had fallen in love with Brooklyn, the biggest, the boldest, with so many people to meet, so many things to see. Bed-Stuy. Red Hook. Park Slope and Prospect Park. Jongin still has to really show him Queens and Chanyeol has been trying for months to make a friend from the Bronx and Staten Island.  
  
Manhattan is fast paced and a little cold, especially in the early mornings when everything is coffee, cigarettes, and the quick tap of heeled shoes on the Union Square platform. Brooklyn is slower, softer, but no less intense. If Manhattan is a frozen river, Brooklyn is its lava cousin. When he falls in love, he wants to show someone the view from DUMBO at night.  
  
Not the love he feels when he “falls in love” with someone on uptown 6 train or “falls in love” with whatever nice girl or guy catches his eye in ten o’clock Advanced Calculus -- when it’s that scary, precipice kind of love that makes him want to kiss someone under the New Years Eve crystal ball and show them off when he Skypes with his big sister, that’s when he’ll take them.  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, he wakes up to a voicemail from Jongin. _“Yo Park. You free today? I’ll be in the city. You know where to find me.”_  
  
Chanyeol rolls his eyes and tries to reach for his glasses on the nightstand without leaving the comfort of his bed. The floor comes up to meet him in all its blurry daze and Chanyeol hisses a swear, pulling his hair back from his face.  
  
After a quick shower in which he blasted Katy Perry’s new single and sang along so obnoxiously Andrew Perez, his upstairs neighbor, politely phoned Chanyeol and told him to “please never sing ever again,” Chanyeol is ready for a summer pre-back-to-school meet up.  
  
Kim Jongin, an on-again-off-again thing of Oh Sehun, one of Chanyeol’s good friends, is always complaining, especially during the school year, how they never hang out with each other during breaks. Jongin is from Flushing, Queens and his childhood home is permanently a train ride away, but Sehun, as pasty as he is, is from Miami and Chanyeol doesn’t think Jongin would like Springfield too much. Too many cows. Jongin has an irrational fear of them.  
  
Nevertheless, because Chanyeol is trying this new wave thing called “not being a douchebag” and he likes Jongin well enough not to stand him up, he pops into Midtown Comics a little before noon. In a second, he has severe Comic Con flashbacks so intense he almost runs out of the place and down the stairs crying, but then he spots Jongin in the manga section, staring at a few new Bleach covers.  
  
“Is Aizen still a butterfly?” Chanyeol asks, walking up to him.  
  
“What?” Jongin glances at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Okay, nerd,” says Chanyeol. A girl with goth makeup glares at him and mumbles under her breath about “fucking posers,” but whatever. New wave thing. Not being a douchebag. Chanyeol is still trying it. Sehun had recommended it to him. Speaking of Sehun--  
  
“Have you spoken to Sehun lately? You know, that guy you’re madly in love with?”  
  
Jongin rolls his eyes. He’s lucky he’s not on the clock or his boss would slide his tentacles out from the backroom and show him another PowerPoint on how to interact with humans (helpfully narrated by Deadpool.)  
  
“Nah,” says Jongin. “Not lately. Last week, he said he was coming up and going to stay in the city with some _friend_.” Jongin says “friend” the same way some people say “liberals.”  
  
 _Friends are ruining our economy_ , Chanyeol imagines Jongin saying. Oh, shit, wait, Jongin’s still talking--  
  
“-- can’t stay with me, right? I’m his friend, too. I live in the city.” He grumbles and rolls his eyes, putting down a volume of Bleach and picking up something called Attack on Titan. “Ohhh,” Jongin half moans as he flips through it. “This one is going to be so good.” He holds the book to his chest and sniffs it. “So good.” He’s petting the book when he notices Chanyeol’s incredulous stare, and then he’s clearing his throat, smiling, and asking, “So, have you eaten yet? Let’s do that.”  
  
  
  
  
Lunch is ribs, fries, and maybe a bit too much Jack. Luckily, Chanyeol hadn’t planned anything else for the day. Unluckily, being slightly tipsy with Jongin in early afternoon meant that unless Chanyeol really wants to hear about the new Kingdom Hearts game (is that the series with Donald Duck?), he has to come up with his own topic of conversation. He picks--  
  
“So.” They’re back in Chanyeol’s apartment, in his living room slash bedroom (#studiolyfe) when Chanyeol brings up the one person on his mind. “I saw a really hot guy at the dog park the other day.”  
  
Jongin, fiddling with Chanyeol’s laptop and trying to get the Wi-Fi to connect so he can Skype Sehun, grunts, “Unless you got his number, don’t mention him to me, you embarrassment.”  
  
“Ouch,” Chanyeol holds a hand over his heart. Jongin isn’t looking at him. Chanyeol drops his hand. “What was that for?”  
  
“You always do this, man,” says Jongin. “You always go on and on about how you met the love of your life at Subway or saw the hottest guy in Staples, but do you ever grab yourself by your _cojones_ and talk to them?”  
  
“Spending those months in Mexico City is the worst thing that has ever happened to you--”  
  
“Chanyeol--”  
  
“Um, no,” comes the voice from the laptop’s speakers. “It’s Sehun.”  
  
“Sehun!” Chanyeol yells, shoving his face into the frame. “Hey, buddy, how’ve you been?”  
  
“Are you guys drunk at one in the afternoon?” Sehun doesn’t sound disapproving; he sounds jealous.  
  
“Maybe,” Chanyeol shrugs. “Jongin says you’re coming up soon?”  
  
“A few days, yeah.” Sehun isn’t looking at Jongin. Chanyeol, who has worked with animals long enough to understand the importance of nonverbal cues, notices and politely doesn’t comment. “I’m staying with a high school friend who transferred to NYU not too long ago. He used to live here.” Then he glances at Jongin and says, “Hey, Chanyeol, can you leave us alone for a second?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll definitely go out on my balcony for a smoke.”  
  
When he doesn’t move, Jongin looks at him. “Weren’t you going outside?”  
  
Chanyeol motions to his window. “Does it look like I have a balcony? Do I smoke?” Does no one understand the concept of the ‘studio apartment’?  
  
Sehun and Jongin just look at him, and the joke is lost.  
  
“Okay, okay,” Chanyeol stands up and yup, there it is. He’s a little tipsy; he can feel it clearly now. “By the way, Jongin, your challenge is accepted.”  
  
“What challenge?” Jongin’s eyebrows furrow together, but he doesn’t look up from the computer screen. Chanyeol misses when his friends were single and didn’t share a brain.  
  
To give Sehun and Jongin some “alone time,” with air quotes and all, Chanyeol takes a stroll around his neighborhood. It’s a beautiful late summer afternoon, the kind that makes Chanyeol want to get off at Stillwell Avenue on the D line and play hopscotch all the way to the beach. But, alas, he tans horribly.  
  
The first dog he sees, an orange Pomeranian that narrowly avoids a puddle because it’s too fixated on whatever treat is in its owner’s hand, triggers memories of yesterday at the dog park.  
  
As annoying as Jongin usually is, he’s right. Chanyeol is all talk and very little action. Not _no_ action, because he can be very charming (read: talkative) when he wants to be and apparently there are still people in the world who want to test the hypothesis that tall guys have big dicks. Hey, Chanyeol’s all for science and shit. Knowledge gained through dick sucking and all that is still knowledge. It’s cool.  
  
But how will Artsy Guy ever know how wonderful Chanyeol is if he doesn’t know _who_ Chanyeol is? Chanyeol has to take the big S.T.E.P. and approach him, and hope that, even if he is rejected, hey, at least he tried. That’s more than a lot of people can say about their crushes.  
  
  
  
  
So on his next conveniently planned outing to the Madison Square Park dog run Chanyeol swears he’s going to do it. He’s an adult, alright. Adults meet all the time. That’s kind of what adults do: they meet, they chat politely, they might even go home, screw for an entire night, and then awkwardly say goodbye the next morning. Not that Chanyeol is interested in a _one_ nightstand with Artsy Guy. He’s never been a short-term satisfaction kind of guy.  
  
Today’s cast of canine characters are Po, the Shih Tzu mix, Killer, the Rottweiler puppy, and Mr. Kabir’s Shining Sunshine or Sunny, as he’s known colloquially outside of the Dachshund show ring. Killer, being both a puppy and a Rottweiler, is the most energetic of the bunch and he doesn’t want to play with Po and her little tail or Sunny, who pants and spreads out on his tummy, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He’s the oldest of the bunch and he’s only interested in the dogs that are interested in _him_ because with age comes the understanding that you don’t need to chase after anyone; anyone worth meeting will come to you.  
  
And Chanyeol needs to stop philosophizing with his dogs again. He doesn’t need to try so hard. Who’s he trying to kid? He only received a B in Philosophy and that had been the most holy B, born from an almost immaculate conception.  
  
Chanyeol is hoping Artsy Guy with his piercings and his tattoos will make another appearance at the dog run. Neither Arrow nor Sam is here, but Bianca, another local, and her poodle puppy Fifi are. He’s listening to one of those ‘dogs do the darnest things’ stories dog owners have too many of when he sees Artsy Guy and his Nala.  
  
Though he’s not allowed to, Artsy Guy removes Nala’s collar before entering the dog run and she stays by his side, snout pointing up at his face. He removes his ear buds and coaxes her into the dog run and there, right there. That’s Chanyeol’s moment. “Excuse me,” he says to Bianca and walks away. This is it: his mouth is open in a happy greeting, he looks good that day in his tight jeans and Watchmen t-shirt (a birthday gift from Jongin).  
  
Chanyeol is all set to initiate operation Artsy Guy’s Name, when Artsy Guy suddenly raises a water bottle to his lips and takes a long pull. The lines of his neck are offensive, even more so than his sweaty collarbones and jogging ( _jogging!_ ) shorts. His leg hair is thick and Chanyeol doesn’t know when he started noticing these kinds of things but he feels himself going down a path of no return.  
  
“Wow,” Chanyeol blurts.  
  
Artsy Guy crushes the water bottle in his hand and straightens his head. When his dark (whoa, is he wearing eyeliner?) eyes meet Chanyeol’s, they’re confused. “What?”  
  
 _Oh shit._ “Oh,” Chanyeol tries to laugh it off. “Sorry, um. Wow. I meant that about.” _Not your face, not your face._ “Your dog. She’s really beautiful.” _You’re really beautiful. Date me._  
  
Artsy Guy is quiet. His eyes are really dark, holy shit, and his gaze is sharp. He also has a cute philtrum. Wow, Chanyeol never thought ten grade anatomy would come back to haunt him like _this_.  
  
“I’m--”  
  
“The dog walker,” Artsy Guy nods, looking from the dogs in the dog run to Chanyeol and then back.  
  
Chanyeol tries not to ogle the side of his face. He fails.  
  
“Right,” Chanyeol nods. _He remembers me_. “But I’m. I’m Chanyeol. That’s my name. Chanyeol, the dog walker.”  
  
“Chanyeol,” says Artsy Guy, slowly.  
  
Chanyeol almost whines. “Yep. Just your average dog walker at your service.” He salutes. Good. He’s doing okay so far. He’s not even drooling! Only his palms are really sweaty. He hopes Artsy Guy doesn’t expect them to shake hands. Oh, wait, what if he is expecting it? That’s something people do when they first meet each other, right? Oh my _God_ \--  
  
“--business card?”  
  
“Huh? What?” Chanyeol interrupts him and then winces when his voice carries through the dog run. “I’m sorry, what was that?”  
  
“Do you have a business card?” Artsy Guy says this even slower, his voice now rough and tinged with annoyance. It’s kinda hot.  
  
Chanyeol pulls a business card out of his wallet and, right at the moment when the card is exchanging hands, Nala trots up to them.  
  
Artsy Guy looks thoughtful. “How much do you charge per walk?”  
  
 _I would do you for free. Wait, no--_ “Um, it depends.” Chanyeol rubs the back of his neck. “If you give me your number, we can talk about it later and see what we can set up.” _Set me up on the table, set you up on the table. I don’t mind._  
  
Then Artsy Guy stares at Chanyeol like he’s really thinking about it, like he’s considering handing over his number so they can talk about things, well, it’s mostly business but Chanyeol has an extremely flexible business model and lives by the phrase “the customer is always right.”  
  
“I’ll have to look at my schedule,” says Artsy Guy. “But I’ll call you in a few days, if that’s alright.”  
  
It’s more than alright, that sounds _wonderful._ “Sure thing,” and Chanyeol knows he’s smiling too brightly and with too many teeth, but he can’t help it. “And your name is?”  
  
“Zitao,” says Artsy Guy. He smiles and Chanyeol will be damned if he doesn’t look both sweet and predatory.  
  
Floating on cloud nine, Chanyeol almost gets himself and his dogs run over by a group of daycare children in brightly colored t-shirts. Po loses some hair off her tail and Killer’s teeth come dangerously close to someone’s lunch box, but since no one is deathly injured and only a handful of kids are scared, Chanyeol considers it a good day.  
  
  
  
  
In the worse twist of fate ever, Zitao answers the door in his underwear.  
  
Chanyeol shouts, steps back onto Jongin’s toes, drives his elbow into Jongin’s stomach, and almost loses his lunch all over himself because he had not been _prepared_.  
  
Let’s back up a bit.  
  
Whatever Jongin and Sehun had spoken of that day they had kicked Chanyeol out of his own apartment had mended the bad feelings between them.  
  
They were dating, again, and Chanyeol was happy for them in a weird, bitter, enjoy-your-lives-without-me-assholes way. He liked his friends, he liked them especially when they were happy, and if they were happiest together, as long as Sehun didn’t freak out again and stand up Jongin on their anniversary because he thought Jongin had been about to propose and Sehun hadn’t been ready for that kind of commitment--  
  
This. This is what Chanyeol, as their mutual friend, has to deal with. He can only hear Oh Sehun crying about the same story, in his underwear, while hate-watching _Girls_ reruns so many times before he wants to glue his mouth shut.  
  
Jongin and Sehun were dating. Jongin had dragged Chanyeol along in the early morning to pick up Sehun from JFK and, surprisingly no one, they had kissed in the airport. Nauseating and cliché-- how neat! Chanyeol had to break them up before they got handsy in front of a couple hundred strangers and steered them both to baggage claim where he proceeded to pounce on all of Sehun’s luggage as he tugged it off the conveyor belt.  
  
It had been early morning. Chanyeol had been incredibly sleepy by the time they had managed to drop Sehun off at his temporary residence on East 59th St.  
  
Chanyeol doesn’t know how he could’ve missed the _huge_ park, you know, the one in the absolute center of the island? That one? He doesn’t spend a lot of time in this neighborhood. The Civil War statue should have been a big hint, along with the _Plaza Hotel_ itself. Chanyeol has only heard about that hotel from tabloids and Haunted New York websites.  
  
And yet, here he is. In the hallway of Zitao’s apartment. Zitao, the person Sehun is currently stay with. Chanyeol hates it when New York feels smaller than Springfield.  
  
“Chanyeol!” Jongin muscles Chanyeol out of the way. “What’s wrong with you? Sorry about that, Zitao, he’s a little--”  
  
Zitao laughs a little. He smiles. He’s _smiling_ , standing in the hallway in his _underwear_. This is not how Chanyeol had thought he would see Artsy Guy’s junk.  
  
“It’s okay. I know him. Kind of.” Zitao looks at away from Jongin, to Chanyeol. “Chanyeol, the dog walker.”  
  
This is all well and good, but Zitao needs to either put a shirt on or quickly acquire some shame. This cannot be good for Chanyeol’s blood pressure.  
  
Then Sehun comes to the door. “Uh, why is everyone in the hall?” He pulls Jongin into the apartment by his wrist and Jongin, with a saccharine smile on his face, stumbles around Zitao’s legs and inside. Chanyeol is a little apprehensive about being in an enclosed space with _Zitao_ , but Zitao is polite and holds the door open for him. They’re about the same height and where Chanyeol is casually toned, Zitao is rock hard. His biceps are even a little bulging and, really, there’s nothing physical about him that is repulsive.  
  
Chanyeol begins to irrationally hate him in response.  
  
“I’ll go put on some clothes,” says Zitao.  
  
Chanyeol mentally cheers when Zitao follows up with, “It’s getting cold,” so no. Still no shame. His baggy sweats and obnoxious New York Film Festival muscle tee do nothing to hide the swell of his ass or the lovely curves of his arms.  
  
It’s a painful dinner. As it turns out, haha, Zitao and Sehun used to live down the street from each other in Miami! Zitao surfs! Haha, isn’t that awesome! He’s a surfer! He’s also a film major and he wants to direct the next action packed motion picture. He’s excited to start NYU in the fall, he’s Sehun’s new roommate, and he’s only renting out this apartment for the summer so they’re all welcome to come and hang out whenever they feel like it.  
  
“Chanyeol,” Sehun kicks Chanyeol under the table. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing,” Chanyeol smiles. Bits of corn tumble out of his mouth.  
  
Jongin makes a big show of puking on himself. Zitao laughs behind his hand. It’s such a pretty laugh.  
  
Chanyeol grumpily takes stock of all the wonderful things he knows about Zitao. He’s Chinese. He’s a Yankees fan but, okay, that can be overlooked. That can be his one flaw. Currently, his favorite show to hate-watch is _Pretty Little Liars._  
  
“What,” Chanyeol had said, eyes narrowed.  
  
Zitao hadn’t even been embarrassed. “I can’t stop watching it. I need to know who A is. I’m a slave to ABC Family.” Then he had pouted and it had been incredible how cute someone could be when their eyes were so sharp, their body so deliciously ripped.  
  
He did _wu shu_ at a little place in Chinatown. Nala, the adorable Shiba Inu currently slumbering under their dinner table, had been Zitao’s gift to himself for his acceptance into NYU. He had only had her for a few months, but he claimed she was the most intelligent dog in the world. He was also convinced he had a ghost in his apartment and Nala, loyal Nala, constantly chased the ghost away with her loud barks.  
  
“Ghosts are real,” he had told Chanyeol very seriously.  
  
Chanyeol had nodded along. “Does this mean you hate horror movies?”  
  
“God, no,” Sehun had cut in. “He loves them but then he’ll beg you to sleep with him. To avoid nightmares and stuff.”  
  
Jongin choked on the rice in his mouth, “Wait what--”  
  
“With clothes on, Jongin,” Sehun had reassured him, shoving another piece of boiled carrot into Jongin’s mouth.  
  
So, no, Zitao isn’t the paradigm of a jock-y, health nut asshole. He’s actually sweet, a little boyish like Sehun (Chanyeol can see why they’re such good friends), and he just happens to have smoldering eyes and thighs the size of Chanyeol’s head. Chanyeol is all too certain Zitao could possibly wipe the floor with his unfit ass, but he probably wouldn’t without first giving Chanyeol an intense lecture on what to do if someone ever wiped the floor with his unfit ass.  
  
If anything, his cute voice and his film ‘factoids’ make Chanyeol like him more, on top of the already, frustrating physical attraction Zitao had already inspired in Chanyeol’s body. He looks like _this_ but he talks like _that_? Chanyeol is angry. People like Zitao shouldn’t exist outside of YA novel adaptations. Chanyeol, who had once harbored a secret Harry Potter fascination, should know.  
  
When Jongin and Sehun are in the kitchen, hopefully washing the dishes and not humping near the stove (again), Zitao is picking the movie they’re about to watch for the night. Chanyeol, who had said he would leave the movie watching “to the professionals,” earning one of Zitao’s toothy grins, sits and watches him.  
  
Maybe later, when they’ve known each other for a little longer, Chanyeol can mention how he had felt when Zitao had walked into the dog park. _“I couldn’t breathe.”_ Ah, yes, because this is what film majors like: cheesy lines one would only find in the romantic comedy of the week.  
  
Nala walks into the room, her brown nose sniffing at the DVDs in Zitao’s hands. “Oh, you want to pick one?” He asks her and spreads out the DVDs, holding them out to his dog. “Nala, pick.” Nala’s yellow paw comes up and lightly taps the DVD at the end of the line. Zitao smiles. “Good girl,” he pets her and she basks in his praise, closing her eyes.  
  
“You rigged that, didn’t you?” Chanyeol later asks him.  
  
Zitao smiles and shrugs, “Maybe.”  
  
“We’re not watching _Sharknado_?” is the first thing Jongin asks when he walks into the living room. The menu for _The Godfather_ is on Zitao’s beautiful flat screen television.  
  
“You have the worst taste in everything,” Sehun says and then, “Except for me.”  
  
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” Zitao winks, and then he and Sehun have this telepathy thing where they laugh at the same time and then fist pound.  
  
“What,” Chanyeol says again, confused.  
  
“I…” Jongin squints. “May have just been insulted.”  
  
Between Zitao’s “watch this, watch this”s and “did you see that?”s Chanyeol has a good time. He’s not paying too much attention to the movie -- he’s seen it before and he had been one of the few not touched by _The Godfather’s_ holy light -- but he appreciates Zitao’s enthusiasm. It conjures up images of other ways Zitao may show his enthusiasm and then he loses his grasp on the plot entirely.  
  
The end of the night finds Sehun half asleep on Jongin’s shoulder and Zitao is leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands on his face like he’s never seen anything like this when Chanyeol knows he’s probably seen it ten thousand times. “Watch this,” he tells Chanyeol for the nth time and Chanyeol finally pulls his eyes away from Zitao’s face long enough to watch the ending of Zitao’s favorite movie.  
  
Chanyeol doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t know where he’d sleep if he stayed over. Maybe he and Zitao could go out, maybe find a little bar and fall in love over shots the way people in New York City based dramas always did.  
  
“I can walk your dog for you tomorrow if you’d like, free of charge, too,” Chanyeol smiles, standing in Zitao’s doorway.  
  
Jongin and Sehun are taking forever to say goodbye. They’re going to see each other tomorrow, for Pete’s sake. Must they be so disgusting.  
  
“Hmm,” Zitao bites his lip. “Better yet. I’ll meet you at the park again, okay? We can hang out after your shift.”  
  
“Okay,” Chanyeol smiles, dimpling. “I’ll see you there.”  
  
  
  
  
“You’re so obvious,” says Jongin on the train.  
  
Chanyeol, having been trying to read the Poetry in Motion on the opposite side of the car, looks at him. “What?”  
  
Jongin rolls his eyes. It’s his favorite pastime, second only to eating Oh Sehun’s saliva.  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol still talks and spends time with Mrs. Jackson and Pickles, Laura Smith and Princess, and Marcus and Arrow. He still walks all of his dogs, and even a few more he has picked up, and he makes sure they’re all well exercise and not hurt when he returns them home.  
  
Mr. Kabir offers Chanyeol spiked lemonade and that’s what keeps Chanyeol from jumping out of his skin when he notices Zitao waiting for him across the street. Chanyeol had texted his last address to Zitao about an hour ago and though they had been spending more time together, he hadn’t expected Zitao to show up in SoHo in a Yankee fitted cap and shorts.  
  
“Dinner?” he asks when Chanyeol comes up to him, flashing his classic crooked smile.  
  
“Yeah, man,” Chanyeol slaps a hand on Zitao’s shoulder and definitely does not _stroke_ it as he drops his hand away. Over drinks, they’re talking more about Zitao’s life in Miami, the whole “surfing” thing Chanyeol refuses to believe because that would be too horrible, when Zitao brings up his first impression of Chanyeol.  
  
“I didn’t really… like you,” he confesses, a little flushed with alcohol. “I don’t know, I didn’t know you either, so that doesn’t seem fair, but--” He shrugs. “I guess I was an asshole and I’m sorry--”  
  
“Hey, no,” Chanyeol waves a hand. “Don’t even worry about it. It’s not like you punched me in the face or anything. I know I can be a little, you know. Annoying. I’m trying to cut back on it, though.”  
  
“No,” Zitao shakes his head. “No, it’s not like that. You’re not annoying. You’re really fun--” Chanyeol’s ears burn. “And, um…” Zitao trails off.  
  
Chanyeol’s laughter is loud and abrupt, “Is that the only nice thing you can say about me?”  
  
“No, no!” Zitao’s laughter spills out from behind his hand and he pushes his cup away so he doesn’t accidentally knock it over. “No, it’s just, um… I remember when I ignored you in the park. The look on your face… you looked like one of your dogs--”  
  
“A _dog_?”  
  
“In a good way!” Zitao defends. “It’s in a good way, I swear. Your eyes are huge. They make you look cute.”  
  
“I’m not cute,” Chanyeol juts out his chin. “You’re cute.” Great comeback. _Let’s reveal your embarrassing, middle school-esque crush in one go, Chanyeol. Start talking about how his eyes sparkle._ The flush on Chanyeol’s ears extends down the back of his neck.  
  
Then they both shut up. It happens so quickly Zitao’s laughter still rings in Chanyeol’s ears.  
  
Zitao is playing with the condensation on his beer glass. Chanyeol thinks he’s drawing a face.  
  
“Zitao….” he starts slowly.  
  
Zitao swallows noisily and looks up, “...Yeah?”  
  
Chanyeol bites his lip, hard. “Nothing,” he says. “Hey, did you catch the game last night? Yankees lost.”  
  
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Zitao presses his almost empty beer glass against his face, now looking grumpy. “It was the worst game of the season.”  
  
  
  
  
On one of the last off days of the summer, Zitao takes Chanyeol on an exclusive tour through Chinatown. The pork soup dumplings are delicious -- though hearing Zitao order in Mandarin is delicious all on its own -- and they sit together at a small table near the back of the restaurant.  
  
Pressed by a fish tank on one side and Zitao on the other, Chanyeol’s legs bend up like towers of the Brooklyn Bridge. It should be annoying and uncomfortable, but Zitao is still trying to feed him off his own plate and Chanyeol doesn’t know what it is about the dumplings Zitao picks out for him, but they taste better than the ones Chanyeol has on his own plate.  
  
“Don’t make a mess,” Zitao holds up a napkin to Chanyeol’s mouth, almost pressing it into his chin. He’s wearing too many rings and bracelets, and whenever he moves his arm, the bracelets jingle and the silver rings sparkle.  
  
It’s hot outside in the muggy, New York City morning and God only knows why Zitao’s pants are so black and so tight Chanyeol has seen tights on the subway with more breathing room, but it’s another good part of his fortune. Zitao, occasionally dresses like he’s part of those real life “vampire gangs” who go around sucking on people. Zitao, hot enough to bring chains back from their reputation of ill repute (fucking scene kids.)  
  
“I was born in China,” says Zitao. “My family immigrated when I was five. I don’t remember much of that… only…” He’s looking at a spot over Chanyeol’s shoulder, eyes too focused to blink. “One of the non-ESL kids in my kindergarten used to try to steal my crayons because, since I couldn’t read the color names, he said I didn’t deserve to have them. I...” His eyebrows (beautiful eyebrows) jump and Zitao looks away ashamed, playing with the little droplets of soup on his plate with the end of his chopstick. “I got so angry I tried to feed a crayon to one of them.” He shrugs a little, ducking his head. “...Wasn’t one of my finest moments, I guess.”  
  
“Are you kidding? That’s fucking awesome! Kids are brutal--” And annoying little shits. “It’s good that you stood up for yourself, man.” Chanyeol could have never done that. Forced confidence was useless and fell away like a Tickle Me Elmo display at Christmas time.  
  
“You think so?” Zitao is playing with the outside of his cup again. He fiddles with his hands a lot. Chanyeol doesn’t mind it -- just like everything else, Zitao has beautiful hands, beautiful, long fingers. “I’ve always felt a little bad about it. I could’ve really hurt him.”  
  
“Personally, I think that kid deserved it,” says Chanyeol. “You can’t accidentally be a dick to someone, you choose to do it. And if the consequences involve Crayola’s Banana Yellow being forcibly shoved into your mouth, well, then, maybe you shouldn’t have expressed such intense feelings for crayons in the first place. The way I see it, you were just giving him what he had wanted all along. Your crayons.” _In his mouth._  
  
Zitao laughs, and it’s so pretty and a bit sparkly. He even has beautiful teeth; he’s unfair. “I guess you’re right. It still didn’t stop me from crying about it to my parents, but that situation is how I got to do wu shu, so some good did come out of it.”  
  
As embarrassing as his life is becoming, Chanyeol could sit here all day listening to Zitao talk, but then Zitao says there’s another place he really wants to talk him. “You can still eat a bit more, right?” asks Zitao, whose stomach is actually a supermassive black hole.  
  
Aji Ichiban is a candy shop.  
  
“Are you allergic to anything?” Zitao smiles and waves to the woman behind the counter, and then begins to fill up his bag of sour orange gummies and something that looks like it has too many drops of Red Dye # 40.  
  
“Cats,” says Chanyeol. “I think that’s about it.”  
  
“Good,” Zitao grins. He picks up a little crushed-looking thing and tells Chanyeol to open his mouth.  
  
“Open my mouth? For what?” Chanyeol wiggles his brows. That had been too easy.  
  
Zitao rolls his eyes, still smiling. “Just. Eat this.” He shoves the piece of candy into Chanyeol’s mouth; Chanyeol’s lips tingle where Zitao’s fingers had touched him.  
  
Chanyeol chews thoughtfully and then looks around for the nameplate to figure out what the hell he’s eating. The taste is familiar, but also different in a way that’s unsettling. He’s never had anything like it.  
  
“No, don’t look!” Zitao scoots back and places his hand over the nameplate on the candy box. “Do you like it?”  
  
“It depends,” says Chanyeol slowly. “What is it?”  
  
Zitao grins. “Prawn.”  
  
Chanyeol stops chewing. “...Shrimp candy?”  
  
“Isn’t it wonderful?” and then Zitao proceed to scoop out about a third of the prawn candy into his orange gummies bag.  
  
“It’s…” Chanyeol swallows. “Something else. I don’t know if I like it yet, you’ll have to share some with me.”  
  
Zitao smiles, “I’ll think about it.”  
  
They play basketball with a couple of kids near a school. “You know, I used to be the co-captain of my school’s basketball team,” says Chanyeol, absolutely tooting his own horn.  
  
Zitao drops his pants (Chanyeol almost screams but alas) to reveal the shorts he had been wearing underneath all along. “Really?” He pulls off his shirt, flashing those arms, those pits, that chest, everything is simultaneously wonderful and terrible, and Zitao smiles, cocky, when his transformation is complete. “I was the captain of my basketball team.”  
  
“I don’t believe you,” Chanyeol goads him. “We should bet on it. Loser buys dinner.”  
  
“You got it,” smirks Zitao. “I like duck, Chanyeol. Don’t forget.”  
  
“Haha,” is the best reply Chanyeol can manage. Hey, he’s under a lot of stress, alright? There’s too much Zitao skin on display.  
  
Chanyeol’s team doesn’t lose embarrassingly. The tall middle schooler on his team tells him to get his “head in the game” and probably stop staring at Zitao so hard, but then the high schooler starts singing High School Musical and their middle school captain is upset.  
  
The only plus side to losing is sweaty Zitao. Glowing, with patches of sweat over his chest and back, he pulls on the strings of his shirts and leans into Chanyeol, his body almost humming, when Chanyeol goes to congratulate him.  
  
“I hope you know this means we’re going to be basketball rivals for the rest of our lives,” Chanyeol informs him. Panting, Zitao tries to smile and pulls on the edge of his low collar, trying to cool off. He smells like deodorant and the Armani Code cologne Sehun had bought for him so he could smell “expensive.”  
  
On the train ride back uptown, Chanyeol catches Zitao’s eyes in the opposite window. They’re sitting next to each other and there’s no one in the opposite aisle, so he pretends to glare at Zitao when they’re going through a tunnel.  
  
Zitao snorts and digs his elbow into Chanyeol’s side, playful. Chanyeol pretends to be wounded and bends over, rubbing the right side of his rib cage. “I did not hit you that hard,” Zitao enunciates into Chanyeol’s ear. Chanyeol’s right shoulder twitches up, Zitao’s breath had been too ticklish, and then Zitao is sighing, working his fingers around Chanyeol’s arm to rub at his side. “There?” Zitao is still whispering.  
  
Chanyeol drops his head on Zitao’s shoulder. “Oh no, what a coincidence. Now my head hurts and you must rub it.” Fun friends doing fun things. Not flirting, definitely not flirting.  
  
“Chanyeol, if you had wanted to rest your weary head on my incredibly broad shoulders, you should have just--”  
  
Chanyeol makes to bite him, his teeth almost closing around the fabric of Zitao’s shoulder.  
  
Zitao laughs, but doesn’t squirm away. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’ll be a good boy.”  
  
Worst choice of words, but okay. After a little while, Chanyeol feels a little awkward about clinging to Zitao like this so he picks his head up. Their thighs are pressed together.  
  
“Hm?” Zitao pulls an ear bud out of his ear. “What’s up?”  
  
Chanyeol rubs the back of his non-aching neck. “Your shoulders. Yikes. Two stars, would not recommend on Yelp.”  
  
“Liar. I would lay my head on my own shoulders if I could.” Zitao would say that. He also seems like the kind of person that would fuck his own clone, not fight it, if he were ever stuck in a room with it.  
  
“Hey, man. The customer is always right.” Chanyeol nods solemnly. He has to bite the inside of his bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Don’t you forget it.”  
  
  
  
  
They continue with their little hangouts. Dinner here, lunch there. Drinks are on Chanyeol or Zitao depending on what day of the week it is.  
  
Chanyeol wouldn’t call their hangouts “dates,” even though the two of them go out alone and they’re usually up all night, at some karaoke place pretending to be rock stars or trying out the massage chairs in Best Buy and accidentally falling asleep for half an hour.  
  
In Prospect Park, Zitao shows Chanyeol some of his slick, _wu shu_ moves in a grassy patch. Chanyeol tries to imitate him and manages to half tumble before he falls over on his side. Zitao has to hold himself up with a tree to keep from falling.  
  
Though Chanyeol’s not sure what his other adult friends do with each other in their spare time in the city, his time with Zitao is half spent eating, and it’s entirely unfair how someone so fit can eat so much and still have room for dessert, and shopping. Not expensive, quintessential New York City drama shopping with the Saks Fifth Avenue and the Barney’s.  
  
In Williamsburg, Zitao buys Scarface posters for his dorm room (just like every film major ever, but Chanyeol doesn’t tell him that because Zitao’s excitement is too cute) and finds several black and white bracelets he likes on a street vendor’s table. He passes a bracelet off to Chanyeol and it’s only when he’s home alone, exhausted after another dog walking day, that Chanyeol notices the inscription along the outside of the leather bracelet. _Sagittarius._ Chanyeol wears his bracelet everyday.  
  
  
  
  
The most painful outing happens on the day they go to Manhattan Mall. It’s not an off day and Chanyeol had spent the better part of the last hour running around Battery Park, chasing a Chihuahua that slipped out of its leash. Alexander the Chihuahua had been saved, but Chanyeol’s muscles are still tense, his bones ache. He’s waiting for the next moment of danger that will cause him to spring into action and save another Pomeranian from the perils of Manhattan traffic, but all he gets is Zitao in ass hugging pants.  
  
“Um,” Chanyeol’s eyes drop to Zitao’s ass and linger there like Zitao has magnets in his cheeks and Chanyeol’s eyes are made of paper clips. “They look, uh…” Then Zitao turns back around.  
  
“So?” The dressing room door is open. Zitao’s ass is reflected in its mirror, never giving Chanyeol’s eyes a moment of rest. If he had known today Zitao would unintentionally give him a boner in the back of Express, Chanyeol would have worn looser pants.  
  
“Good?” Zitao looks back at himself in the mirror.  
  
“Terrible.” _Terrible. Take them off and let me suck you off._  
  
“Really? You don’t like them?” Zitao smooths a hand down his ass, pretending like he’s measuring the fit and not like he’s stroking himself.  
  
Ever since that day in the subway when they had, for the lack of a better word, cuddled, Zitao has been acting a little weird around Chanyeol. He hasn’t been avoiding him, no, and their outings haven’t slowed down in frequency. At least once a week Zitao is texting Chanyeol or messaging him through Facebook, and telling him of this super, great new eating place they have to check out or how so and so, the famous actor, has been spotted in Midtown so they _have_ to go see if they can find him!  
  
And if Chanyeol had tried to convince himself they didn’t go out on dates before, lately, he’s been doubling his efforts to not get his hopes up.  
  
Now, they flirt. Now, Zitao’s twinkling eyes catch Chanyeol’s over happy hour and he sits next to Chanyeol, not across from him.  
  
If his hands “accidentally” graze Chanyeol’s arms or his thighs, Zitao has moved beyond apologizing. He won’t bring it up if Chanyeol doesn’t look at him, interrobangs in his eyes.  
  
They’ve gone bowling at Chelsea Piers and, when Chanyeol had turned around after getting another gutter ball, Zitao’s eyes had swept up his body, thigh to chest, and Chanyeol had felt a ripple of heat go through him that had nothing to do with their spicy nachos.  
  
Jongin has started referring to Zitao as Chanyeol’s “boyfriend,” and Chanyeol is sure he’s walked in on Jongin and Sehun talking about him. Dear Sehun seems to be in a competition against himself to see how far he can go with forced helpfulness and innuendo before Zitao spin kicks him across the East River. Every trip to Zitao’s apartment, every time Chanyeol has walked Zitao home after they’ve both had a little too much to drink, Sehun is there in the kitchen, in the living room.  
  
Once, he had told Zitao, “Isn’t Chanyeol such a nice boyfriend? He walks you home and everything!” Which, of course, had been Sehun trying to be as annoying as possible. His shitty smirk had given him away.  
  
Chanyeol, drunk but not too drunk, had witnessed Zitao’s small, pleased smile and that, _that_ had felt like a spin kick that would catapult him over the East River.  
  
Now, Chanyeol is standing outside a dressing room, waiting for Zitao to change into other, probably tighter pants, and he wonders if he’s missing something.  
  
“Chanyeol. Can you help me get these off?” Zitao opens the door again. The front zipper of his pants is open, his boxers are dark and soft looking, and his cheeks are spilling over the top like an ass soufflé.  
  
Chanyeol wants to cry. He thinks he’s seen the beginning of his porno before. “Alright,” he says, stepping into the dressing room.  
  
Zitao ominously shuts the door and wriggles around, trying to shove the jeans off his muscular thighs. They won’t budge.  
  
“How did you get them on in the first place?” Chanyeol doesn’t know where to put his hands. Well, no, that’s not true. He knows where he _wants_ to put his hands, but he’s not sure that’s polite dressing-room-helping etiquette.  
  
“I don’t really know?” Zitao’s laugh is a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry for this, too. We’ll both push, okay?”  
  
Zitao’s hands are on the front of his jeans. Chanyeol lifts his own, “So where--”  
  
Zitao flushes, “Um. Awkward. You might have to, um…” He half turns. Chanyeol’s gets an eyeful of his ass again. _Oh_. Chanyeol has to help tug the pants over his ass--  
  
Chanyeol takes a deep breath and turns his fitted cap around. He means business. “Let’s do this,” he says and places his hand on the waistband of the jeans. Not touching Zitao’s ass. Thinking about it, yes, of course, but, to be fair, when isn’t he? “On the count of three, okay? One.” He slips his fingers into the waistband, pulls it away from Zitao’s boxers, and tightens his grip. “Two.”  
  
“Three,” Zitao finishes. They pull and they pull, and the pants only budge a tiny bit. They keep going, not willing to let a pair of Levi’s overpower them, and Chanyeol, bent over, feels himself slipping down to his knees. He lets himself, still pulling, and when the pants are off Zitao’s thighs, pooling at his calves, Chanyeol is on his knees, in front of Zitao, in a dressing room with the door closed.  
  
Zitao notices the situation a second after Chanyeol does. “Oh.”  
  
Chanyeol flushes and jumps up to his feet. “We did it. Good hustle, team!” He and Zitao smack palms. Chanyeol does not, under any circumstance, look down at Zitao’s underwear or any piece of his anatomy that may or may not stand out through the fabric.  
  
Zitao doesn’t buy any jeans. He does grab Chanyeol’s hand to pull Chanyeol out of the street before he’s run over by another yellow assassination taxi and he doesn’t let go until they’re inside the subway. Then it’s a few, short stops to Zitao’s apartment on East 59th Street, but the stops seem long enough when Chanyeol is trying not to look at Zitao and Zitao keeps catching his eyes in the train windows.  
  
  
  
  
“We never hang out during breaks!” Jongin starts up again a week after the Manhattan Mall trip, calling Chanyeol when he has four dogs and they’re all staring at the poor hotdog vendor across the street. “Zitao is cooking tonight. I know you’ll come for him, but at least try to remember Sehun and I still exist, okay?”  
  
“Fine, fine,” says Chanyeol, holding his cellphone with his shoulder to his ear so he can keep his hands on all the leashes. Killer is growing right before his very eyes and he’s going to be a handful when he’s fully grown and walking _Chanyeol_ across Midtown.  
  
Zitao’s invitation to Chanyeol comes over Facebook and Chanyeol, in between using Google Translate to see what other people have been posting on Zitao’s timeline (Peach, what? Panda? _What?_ ), dutifully accepts.  
  
Nala, still wearing a pretty bandana from the local groomer, greets Chanyeol at the open door. She sniffs at the side of his pants leg, then his hands, and seems to find him acceptable company.  
  
“Nala,” says Sehun from the couch, patting his lap. “Come here, girl.”  
  
Nala ignores him, walks around Sehun to Jongin, and noses his knee, her dark eyes closing when he brings his hand down to pet her. Jongin grins, “Good girl, Nala. You’re so smart.”  
  
Zitao is in the kitchen, dressed down in sweats and a thin tank top. He cooks, too. Chanyeol would swoon but he might face plant into a boiling pot of noodles and he doesn’t feel like going to the Emergency Room today. He joins Sehun, Jongin, and Nala in the living room, and Jongin is talking about a new upcoming Marvel comic book movie that only Sehun, the other nerd in the family, is interested in. Chanyeol rubs between Nala’s ears and is petting her stomach when Chef Zitao comes out of the kitchen.  
  
Chanyeol’s never seen so many plates of Chinese food before. “Okay, now you’re just showing off,” says Jongin, but he’s not complaining while he’s stuffing his face with hot garlic chicken.  
  
They eat until they’re bursting at the seams and then Zitao sits back, dapping his mouth with a napkin, and tells them all to do the dishes since he cooked. All in all, it’s a good evening. Dessert is a movie and a few scoops of black cherry ice cream served in Superman bowls.  
  
Zitao rests his chin on Chanyeol’s shoulder and Chanyeol, full and happy and warm, leans his head against Zitao’s. Jongin coos obnoxiously and Sehun smacks him in the thigh, prompting a short whispering session that ends with short-lived kissing noises and Sehun’s hushed giggles.  
  
“You can stay over, if you want,” whispers Zitao.  
  
Chanyeol shivers and looks over to Jongin and Sehun. Jongin is whispering into Sehun’s ear, his hand around one of Sehun’s wrist. “I think Jongin is staying over,” Chanyeol replies. “Wouldn’t that be too many people?”  
  
Zitao turns his head, his lips grazing Chanyeol’s ear. “My bed is free.” He shifts. “I mean, we can sleep in the same bed together. It’s okay.”  
  
 _My bed is free._ Pressure builds in Chanyeol’s head. He’s going to start leaking brain matter out of his ears in a second if Zitao doesn’t _stop_ being so _Zitao_ about everything. Blunt and slightly sexually suggestive but, at the same time, platonic and well meaning.  
  
“Another time,” Chanyeol promises. Another deep breath in and he resumes their half-cuddling session. Not even Zitao is paying attention to the movie. Instead, he shifts closer, hooks his arm around Chanyeol’s, and settles down for a short nap.  
  
Chanyeol is smiling when he turns to the television and the protagonist is murdered by the masked foe. He notices, aided by Zitao’s comfortable weight on his shoulder, that doesn’t even know the name of this film.  
  
  
  
  
During what Jongin calls “Chan and Tao’s Excellent Adventure,” Chanyeol and Zitao talk about everything. Chanyeol doesn’t remember every single little detail, but he does remember the important ones: Zitao’s favorite kind of poultry is duck, he’s a Derek Jeter fan and he will never be embarrassed over it (but mention A-Rod and he will ask, “A-Rod who?”), he wants a few more ear piercings and maybe another tattoo on his back, and he misses surfing but not as much as he misses Miami weather. To Zitao, ninety degrees Fahrenheit is “comfortably warm” and the temperature isn’t ever “hot” until it hits the triple digits.  
  
One of the more familiar topics is the entity that is Sehun and Jongin, and Sehun and Jongin on their own. Tonight, Zitao laments how nauseatingly in love they are.  
  
“They’re like a movie,” says Zitao in Chili’s. “I really think they might get married one day if--”  
  
Chanyeol takes a sip of water and sighs. “Sehun stops being such a commitment-phobe?”  
  
“I don’t blame him,” Zitao’s voice is low, almost at a whisper. “It’s not easy, finding someone you want to know you so closely. What if they get too close and they see everything you’ve been trying to hide?”  
  
Chanyeol thinks this is a rhetorical question so he doesn’t have an answer, but when Zitao turns to him expectantly, as if to say, “well?” Chanyeol has to scramble for something.  
  
“Um,” he starts. “Isn’t everyone afraid of that, though? I mean, it’s not like we go around saying, ‘hey, look, you like me and all, but will you like me after you’ve seen all this?’ and pull out this... metaphorical trunk of all the shit we’ve ever done and thought. It doesn’t...work like that. You can try and hide it all you want, but, and maybe I’m only saying this because my sister’s favorite move is _The Princess Bride_ and she made me watch it too many times as a kid so I may or may not believe all that true love crap.”  
  
He does, but he’ll deny it if pressed. Skyscrapers are a magnet for pessimism and Chanyeol wants to fit in.  
  
“But…” He continues. “It’s always terrifying when you find someone who makes you feel like...you don’t have to be afraid to show them what you’ve been hiding all along.”  
  
Now Zitao is looking at him, eyes wide. “Have you… ever found someone like that?”  
  
Chanyeol does what he always does in uncomfortable situations: he smiles. “I might have, but that’s the thing about letting people in. If you don’t make a door for them to come through, how the hell are they ever supposed to know you want them to come in? As much as Jongin would like to believe the opposite, mind readers don’t exist.”  
  
Chanyeol, the college student. Chanyeol, the budding entrepreneur. Chanyeol, the coward. How easily he can talk like this when he hasn’t even shown Zitao his door.  
  
This discussion is going to give Chanyeol an irrational fear of doors.  
  
That’s when Zitao stands up, leans across the table, and, for a split second, Chanyeol thinks he’s going to kiss him. He doesn’t. He freezes half-way, as if the suddenly burst of courage has deserted him, and Zitao stands there, wide eyed and afraid in the middle of Chili’s.  
  
This had been their last stop -- a quick watch of the sports recap of the day and a few drinks before bed. Chanyeol has work tomorrow -- Poof, Charlie, Princess, and Mr. Pickles will have his attention for the better part of the day -- and doesn’t plan on staying out too late.  
  
Technicalities like work and other people are far from Chanyeol’s mind right now. He watches as Zitao slowly sits back down and Chanyeol, Chanyeol doesn’t really know what’s going on, but he knows that Zitao had almost done something and he won’t let him feel as though he’s been rejected.  
  
Chanyeol grabs his wrist, “Hey.”  
  
Zitao’s arm shakes, but he doesn’t pull back. “Hey.”  
  
“So,” Chanyeol can’t gloss over it. He should. He doesn’t want to embarrass Zitao, but he has to know. “What’s up? What was that all about?”  
  
Zitao’s Adam’s apple bobs. “That,” he says. He takes a deep breath, and then, “That was me losing my nerve.” He meets Chanyeol’s eyes, confident, almost daring him to speak up.  
  
“Losing your nerve…” Chanyeol speaks slowly. “What did you want to do?”  
  
“Really,” says Zitao. His tone says all he thinks about Chanyeol’s intelligence.  
  
“What?” Chanyeol leans back in his chair, still holding Zitao’s wrist. “That’s a good question!” Explicit knowledge, explicit. Said out loud, spelled out with skywriting, written on a napkin and then tucked away into Chanyeol’s back pocket -- Chanyeol wants to _know_ , he doesn’t want to _guess_. “Zitao--”  
  
“I had it all in my head,” Zitao’s voice is quick and lashes through the air like a whip. “I was going to confess during Christmas in Rockefeller Center, with the big tree and all the lights, just like the postcard designs in Penn Station. You were going to laugh and tackle me in the ice ring, and I would fall and pull you down with me, and then we’d laugh while a group of Australian tourists laughed at _us_ and took pictures of those ‘silly New Yorkers’ and we’d never tell them we’re not really from around here--”  
  
“Wait, why Australian tourists?” is the only thing Chanyeol can manage. He feels like he’s drowning in the knowledge that _Zitao had wanted to confess to him_ and also that _Zitao is into him too, holy shit_. He hears music from the world’s tiniest concert ensemble and it’s so wonderful, it’s the music playing at the end of a movie when everything is alright after all and all that’s missing is a cheesy kiss.  
  
(Chanyeol loves cheesy kisses. Damn you, _The Princess Bride._ )  
  
“I don’t know!” Zitao’s voice, almost hysterical, breaks through Chanyeol’s mental concert performance. He then quiets himself down. “I’ve always wanted to go to Australia, I guess.”  
  
He’s _adorable_. Chanyeol wants to shove their empty glasses on to the floor, pull Zitao forward by his shirt collar, and furiously make out with him in the middle of the restaurant.  
  
Instead, he quietly pays the bill and lets Zitao led him out of the restaurant through… a back entrance they hadn’t previously used.  
  
“What--”  
  
Again, Zitao kisses him, but this time he shoves Chanyeol against the wall, pinning him there with his hips. His kiss is just as soft as it had been before and Chanyeol is momentarily stunned again because when had they moved from talking about letting people in to Zitao wanting Chanyeol to let him into his _mouth_ \--  
  
“Stop thinking,” whispers Zitao. His breath is warm and sweet, and one of his legs is between Chanyeol’s, holding him there.  
  
Chanyeol has never been kissed like this or even held like this, and the tidal wave of burning want that sizzle in the pit of his belly surprises him so much he grabs Zitao’s shoulders and pulls him back in for another kiss. Zitao is so _strong_ but his lips are so soft. He’s probably strong and soft all over; maybe Christmas has come early after all.  
  
“I’ve always wanted to make out in an alley,” confesses Zitao, almost a little shy.  
  
They’re right by a dumpster. “Smelly,” says Chanyeol, grinning. The lighting’s pretty bad, it’s cold as hell, and the garbage smell is only buffeted by the smell of old pee. “But it does sound romantic, I’ll give that to you.” He blinks, the situation finally coming to him. He would have never thought things like this could happen in real life. “I can’t believe this is happening.”  
  
“What?” Zitao looks from Chanyeol’s eyes down to his mouth, eyes dark. “Can’t believe we’re kissing?”  
  
“Can’t believe you had your confession planned out. Christmas?” Chanyeol is ecstatic, so happy he wants to pinch all of his body parts to make sure this isn’t a terribly wonderful dream, but that would mean letting Zitao go and Chanyeol doesn’t want to do that yet.  
  
“I’m a film major,” says Zitao. “We always have to think ahead.”  
  
“Well, _excuse me._ ” He kisses Zitao and wonders if he had seen that coming, but Zitao easily keeps up with his pace. Chanyeol is quickly drunk off his taste and the softness along the inside of his mouth, but then--  
  
“Oh, um,” Chanyeol suddenly pulls back. “I kind of like you, too. Like, a lot.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” says Zitao, voice hushed. “You’re like an elephant. Even when you try to hide, you’re pretty obvious.”  
  
“Ouch,” says Chanyeol, still grinning. His hands are warm on Zitao hips. “Wait, am I sexy elephant? Because this is kind of important for my ego--”  
  
  
  
  
Chanyeol is clumsy. There are moments when it doesn’t matter -- like when he knocks over Sehun’s bottle of water and it spills all over Jongin’s lap, and Sehun is politely hauling Jongin away to “clean him up,” and Chanyeol wonders if he had unknowingly been a pawn in another kinky, sex game -- and there are moments when Chanyeol’s clumsiness makes Zitao laugh so hard ginger ale squirts from his nose, and those are the moments Chanyeol likes best.  


 

 

  
  
  
  
  
“Hey Zitao? Hey, yeah, it’s Chanyeol. I was just thinking… have you ever been to DUMBO? No, no, not the elephant.” A smile. “It’s a neighborhood, it stands for District Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It’s in Brooklyn. I think you’ll like it.” A pause. “Yeah, I like it a lot. Not more than you, of course not.” Chanyeol laughs. “We should go.”


End file.
